


We are Groot

by Donatello7



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BAMF Groot, Crew as Family, Daddy Drax, Dancing baby Groot, Dark, Death of fluffy things, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Horror, Hurt Peter, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Torture, Unethical Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:33:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donatello7/pseuds/Donatello7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Random collection of Groot centric one shots.</p><p>Chapter 2 - The plan was solid. They were ready for Rocket’s meltdown. Which was why Groot’s meltdown took them completely by surprise.<br/>Chapter 3 - Groot had existed before the lab. Groot had a name. An identity. But everything that 89P13 was had been born in the nightmare of Halfworld.<br/>Chapter 4 - “You’re awake.” He says. “Missed you, Pal.”<br/>Chapter 5 - “How’d this happen?” Yondu says, turning back to his first mate. “That dumb tree pregnant or something?”<br/>Chapter 6 - Rocket sighs, a sigh that Groot has come to identify as his ‘what the hell am I thinking’ sigh, and climbs onto Groot’s knee.<br/>Chapter 7 - Rocket is smart enough to make the logical deduction that if a sheet of ice is strong enough to withstand the weight of one Drax the Destroyer then it should also be strong enough to withstand the weight of a tiny little rodent man. He is also smart enough to be surprised when, suddenly, this proves not to be the case.<br/>Chapter 8 - Kraglin points at the parchments. “Enjoy them.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 89P19

 

It is later that he learns that the images in his head are called memories. No, learn is the wrong definition. Learn implies gaining of knowledge, through a book (he sees the scientists reading sometimes, while they eat) or from a screen (the screens telling them how fast his heart is beating. Why his left leg is twitching. How much blood he has left) or from conversation.

 

No, suddenly he just knows that the images in his head are called memories. Memories of warm trees, and being huddled in nest. The days are getting longer, and he is in a group with others. They seek females.

 

And then noise. Lights. They run for the trees. He is blinded. And the world becomes cold, sterile, and the trees become bars.

 

The knowledge becomes available in his brain. He knows that his name is 89P13, but he doesn’t have a name like normal creatures. The scientists in the lab have names where the words are run together to form sounds, it is Shana not S H A N A. Mal not M A L (this is called the spelling). 89P13 doesn’t know why he has a different name that is spelled out instead of spoken, and his brain does not have the knowledge available yet. So he decides that it must be because the scientists are people, and 89P13 is a thing.

 

But things have names, he tells himself. What he is in is named a cage, not a C A G E. The cage is in a thing called a room, in a thing called a building, and 89P13 reaches a new conclusion.

 

He is less than a thing.

 

* * *

 

He learns to use the words to communicate. This is called talking.

 

“Stop.” He cries as electricity courses through him. Burning. Pain. Can’t breath. Can’t breath. And it stops and he feels water in his eyes. Why are his eyes making water? “Stop.”

 

The scientist writes down that he spoke. Writes down the word. And the electricity comes again.

 

“I want to go home.”

 

More writing (usings symbols that represent each letter of the word). More electricity. 13’s mind tells him about manners.

 

“Please, let me go home.”

 

He eventually stops talking when he realises that the scientists aren’t interested in what he is saying, only that he is saying it at all.

 

* * *

 

89P14 is a tiny rag of a thing, with claws and whiskers and a strange screech noise that she makes as she is held on the table, hissing, tail flying from side to side. Her voice is guttural as she forms the words put into her mind.

 

89P14 lives for twenty two days.

 

* * *

 

89P15 looks like 13, only smaller. Not younger, just skinnier. 13 is well fed, and one day he fell asleep and woke up with things inside of him that make him taller and wider and stand like the scientists. They hurt his back and make him feel dizzy, like he is not so much walking but falling as he moves from one side of the lab to the other.

 

89P15 never talks. He dies after seven days.

 

* * *

 

89P16. Twelve days.

 

* * *

 

89P17. Fifteen days.

 

* * *

 

13 is a miracle. He is remarkable. He is special. Because he has now lived for over 200 days. And he has survived everything that the scientists have done to him.

 

He doesn’t know why.

 

89P18 is brought into the lab, and he feels happy. He has come to welcome the new test subjects, because all the time the scientists are experimenting on them, they are not experimenting on him.

 

It is wrong to think that way, and he bites into his arm to punish himself.

 

13’s brain tells him that this is not healthy.

 

13 tells his brain to get fucked.

 

* * *

 

89P18 dies after only four days. He never forgives her.

 

* * *

 

“Why am I still alive?”

 

The scientists write it down.

 

“Please. No more.”

 

He talks to himself, because he is the only one that will listen.

 

* * *

 

He sits in the corner of his cage, knees drawn to his chest and his forehead rested against them. He’s turned over the water bowl, just for something to do, and now the bottom of the cage is soaked as is his fur. It has been three days, and the only contact with the scientists has been when they have changed his food.

 

“89P13 showing signs of severe depression.”

 

“Non responsive.”

 

“Introducing tricyclic amitriptyline into subjects diet.”

 

His food starts to make him vomit.

 

* * *

 

19 arrives in a box.

 

“So valuable...”

 

“...will revolutionise medical science.”

 

“How did you come to obtain it?”

 

Memories. Tree. Warm. Safe. Nest. Friendship. The smell of ozone and foliage and how grass smelled after rain. The little girl that leaves him a bowl of cat food behind her farm house.

 

The smell of the tree creature reminds him of all these things, and he hopes that he lives for a long time, but this time for different reasons. Still just as selfish, but he doesn’t bite into his arm this time.

 

They strap the tree creature to the table, and 13 climbs up the bars of his cage to see past the scientists. He sees what they are doing, and falls to the floor in a ball. Paws (hands) over ears. Humming.

 

The creature screams as they cut off his arm with a saw.

 

* * *

 

“Full cellular regrowth.”

 

“Incredible.”

 

The creature screams as they cut off his arm with a saw.

 

* * *

 

They keep 19 strapped to the table, unable to move, surrounded by his arms in various states of decay. One is in a bucket, dissolving the bark (flesh). Another lies on the shelf beside 13’s cage, and he thinks that he sees it twitch. Clawing at the surface as if trying to gain purchase.

 

Trying to escape.

 

“I’m sorry.” (I’m sorry that this is happening to you.)

 

19 turns against the restraints around his head, eyes large and glistening with moisture as they study the tiny creature leant against the bars of the cage.

 

“I am Groot.” (I know.)

 

* * *

 

13 kicks. He screams. He bites the hand that replaces his food, and defecates into the water. He fights for attention. Anything to get them to stop cutting into the creature on the table.

 

19 has lived for thirty days.

 

He wants 19 to die.

 

He wants 19 to be lucky like him. And remarkable. And given respite while they work on whichever unlucky soul is doomed to be 89P20.

 

He wants 19 to be safe, so he screams and shouts abuse at the scientists. He refuses to eat. He gets their attention.

 

His brain tells him that this is selflessness.

 

His brain tells him that he is a fool, but it uses different words for this. “I am Groot.” It says.

 

* * *

 

“Cellular regrowth patterns from flora colossus are now charted. Grafting to 89P13.”

 

“Begin the experiment.”

 

He is strapped to the table, arms, legs, head. He can feel the metal in his back scrape against the surface beneath him as he struggles. They bring out the saw.

 

“Failure likely at this point, but will provide a starting base for further improvement.”

 

“No anesthetic. It will interfere with the results.”

 

He screams and bites. “Stop. No!”

 

The bring the saw down, and he feels another scientist take a thick pen, and draw into his fur. And he hears screaming. His own, and another. A roar. A shadow fills his vision, he can not see beyond it. He hears snapping. The bars of a cage ripped open. The table is turned onto its side and the restraints give way. 13 falls to the floor. Can’t breath. Screaming. Burning. Fire. A screen splutters electricity above him. Smoke. Scalpel. He grabs it, and cuts into the face of the scientist laid beside him.

 

Again.

 

Again.

 

Again.

 

The face is cut into ribbons.

 

Again.

 

Again.

 

Again.

 

He drops the scalpel as bark covered hands grab him. Lift him. Run with him. Alarms sound. 19 grabs a scientist with a device in his hand (rifle) and snaps his neck. 13 grabs the rifle from the twitching fingers. He knows how to use it.

 

The knowledge is there.

 

Hands grab him again, and he sits on the creatures back. Screams. Alarms. Explosions. And then cold night air. Stars. The moon. Ozone. His memories had started to feel like a dream.

 

They run. He drops the rifle and clings to the bark. They run and run and run and metal surrounds them again. Controls. His brain tells him what to do. The room (the ship) lifts off the ground and flies into the atmosphere. Shakes. Something hit the wing but they don’t need it anymore. They are free.

 

They are in the night sky. Space, he thinks it is named.

 

Even the night sky has a name.

 

“I am Groot.” The creature sits beside him, when all is calm. “I am Groot.”

 

“Don’t know what I am.” He says quietly, eyes fixed on the controls.

 

And if he concentrates, he realises that he can hear words within the words that 19 (Groot) speaks. But they are unclear. He will need practice. “You are Racoon.” Is what is said. But that is not what 13 hears when they talk that first day.

 

“Rocket.” He says, nodding. “Okay. I’m Rocket.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

 


	2. Startled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan was solid. They were ready for Rocket’s meltdown. Which was why Groot’s meltdown took them completely by surprise.

Rocket was rarely more than five seconds away from a full meltdown. The rest of the Guardians understood that, and contingencies were put in place pretty much as soon as the regrowing Groot was old enough to contribute.

 

Ravagers came from all walks of life, not all of them desirable, and if there was one thing that being raised by them had taught Peter Quill then it was what to say around a mentally unstable person when that mentally unstable person was holding at pistol at either their own head or somebody elses.

 

Gamora and Drax both understood pain and horror, and what both could do to you. They had both had added to their knowledge using the wealth of information provided by the Milano’s database. They had even practised by using role play, although Peter sometimes wondered if Gamora was benefiting as much as her character when she cried in Drax’s arms, and visa versa.

 

As for Groot? Well, Groot understood Rocket.

 

So the plan was quickly drawn up for what the Guardians were going to say and not say, and do or not do, when Rocket had another episode (They all knew that it was a case of ‘when’ and not ‘if’). After all, he was part of the team, a Guardian of the Galaxy, and while most days they were still figuring out the nuances of what that meant, everyone agreed that first and foremost it meant that they looked after each other.

 

The plan was in place and memorised. They even ran drills on the odd days when Rocket was too busy working on his trinkets to notice anything short of an explosion, and even his noticing THAT was only somewhat likely.

 

The plan was solid. They were ready for Rocket’s meltdown. Which was why Groot’s meltdown took them completely by surprise.

 

None more than Peter.

 

* * *

 

“Groot, buddy, it’s okay.”

 

Peter’s voice is strained, which is hardly surprising. He is currently pinned to the bulkhead by a through and through ‘foreign object’ in his shoulder. That foreign object is a vine, and the vine is coming out of Groot’s arm.

 

The other man pants heavily, the last dregs of his panic attack slipping from his form and leaving him limp in the middle of the room, eyes widening as he sees the vine he has created. “I…”

 

“No, no, no, no, no.” Peter grimaces with pain as he shouts, teeth gritted. “Leave it there, buddy, you might...argh...you might be holding something together.”

 

Sap forms in the corners of Groot’s eyes as he steps forward, growing his other arm to form a ledge beneath Peter’s dangling feet, taking the weight off of his shoulder. The relief washes over the Terran, and despite everything he gives the other man a grateful smile. “Whatever happens, this ain’t your fault, okay? I startled you.”

 

“I am Groot.”

 

Peter knows enough about vocal tones and body language to get a general gist of what is being said. “I know, man. I know you’re sorry. We’re all learning how to live with each other. Nearly had one of Drax’s knives in my head once or...twice” Peter laughs, then his head falls forward. “Okay...passing out...looking...likely. Can you...make...make this vine longer...get to the door?”

 

Groot nods, the mask of horror so solid on his face that it could have been chiseled there. He steps backwards, the vines growing from his arm as he does so, keeping Peter pinned to the wall and supported by the ledge. Groot gets to the door of Milano’s cargo bay, and takes a deep breath.

 

The sound that he shouts into the galley is guttural and raw.

 

By this time Peter has slumped against the vine, tear tracks glistening on his face as he gives in to the pain of his shoulder. A few moments of blessed mindlessness, then he is brought crashing back to painful awakeness by Drax’s hands encasing the sides of his head like a helmet.

 

“Quill. We are going to get you down now.” Drax smiles as he places a stool beneath Peter’s feet, allowing Groot to retract the ledge.

 

“Groot?”

 

“No permanent harm will come to our friend. We all understand, as I am sure you do.”

Drax looked back at Groot, his features carefully schooled.

 

The plan was solid, but it was also adaptable.

 

“But we also cannot afford to remove the vine here.” He turns back to the Terran. “It has penetrated the wall of a vital artery, and you will require a proper medical facility to remove it. We must therefore cut it from Groot”

 

“Hurt?” Peter mutters.

 

“The choice was his own.” Drax explains, looking back at Groot with a smile that he hopes communicates companionship. “Groot understands. And he assures us that the pain he will feel will be brief.”

 

Groot nods, the mask of horror still chiseled into his features.

 

“No…” Peter shakes his head, but it takes the last of the energy that he has. He passes out again, listless against the combined support of Drax’s grip and the vine still pinning him to the wall.

 

Gamora steps forward with the cutting tool, but then Rocket grabs it, hissing when Gamora starts to protest.

 

“I’m doing this.”

 

Gamora nods, eyes darting to make contact with Drax’s who nods in return, and they both move to the edge of the room, allowing Rocket the space he needs as he swallows and climbs up a crate so that he is level with where the vine is protruding from Groot’s arm.

 

“It’ll...it’ll grow back, you idiot.” He says, eyes glassy as they look upon his friend.

 

“I am Groot.”

 

“And...and just this. No more. I’m not...them.” He looks down. “This isn’t Halfworld.”

 

Groot nods. “I am Groot.”

 

Rocket rests a hand on on the other man’s shoulder, then takes a deep breath, and begins.

 

Groot screams as Rocket cuts his arm away with a laser saw.

 

* * *

 

Afterwards, Rocket lays on his side in the bunk, eyes fixed on the wall.

 

Drax stands beside the bunk, one hand carefully scritching the fur at the back of Rocket’s head.

 

The plan was solid.

 

* * *

 

Having been released from the hospital on Xandar, Peter’s first day back on the Milano is spent convincing Yondu that he doesn’t need to stage any sort of mission to rescue Peter from ‘that Guardian pack’. The day ends with the Terran reluctantly agreeing on a signal that he is to send should that situation ever change, which Yondu promises to look out for.

 

Peter believes him, and makes a mental note on how he is going to make his amends to the rest of the Ravagers. He has seen ‘protective Yondu’ before, and knows that the next few months will be no picnic.

 

The second day is spent convincing Groot that it is okay for him to come out of the box in the cargo bay where he has insisted on ‘storing’ himself. It is Peter himself who makes the approach, breath held until he can see the other man.

 

“Hey, buddy, Going to come join us for dinner?”

  
“I am Groot.”

 

Peter smiles, unable to help the instinct that sends his hand to his shoulder as skin stretches across the wound. “I’m sorry I startled you the other day. Rocket...Rocket told me about Halfworld. Should have known you would be jumpy.” Peter smiles. “It was my bad, okay?”

 

“I am Groot.” Groot shakes his head.

 

“Hey, come on.” Peter climbs up and sits on the edge of the box, legs dangling down like a child sat on a wall. “I get it. You’re not the first.” He removes his coat, leaving himself in a t-shirt, which he lifts. “That one…” He points at a long, jagged line just above his hip. “Kraglin. He’d just been on a solo mission that had gone south and I woke him for dinner.” He lifts it up further so that just below his armpit is visible. “That slice is Yondu. I snuck up behind him and yelled Boo. I was only a kid. Damn arrow was inches from my lungs. Never seen a Centaurian go so pale. Yondu insisted on patching me up himself.”

 

Groot nods, drawing his long legs in so that his knees were held against his chest.

 

“So really, scar from you.” Peter points at his shoulder. “Kind of pathetic. Try harder next time.”

 

And Groot smiles. “I am Groot.”

 

Peter smiles back.

 

 


	3. But Names Will Never Hurt Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Groot had existed before the lab. Groot had a name. An identity. But everything that 89P13 was had been born in the nightmare of Halfworld.

“Mr Obfonteri. Where’s Yondu?”

 

“Ain’t here on official business.” Kraglin says, looking up and down the shelves of The Broker’s shop and wondering if he should pick up one of the Cute Little BuggersTM for the Captain. “Got a mission I’m working on, and for it I need a security band that’ll get me through the doors of a Nova Corps datahouse.”

 

“Not so loud.” The Broker hisses, marching around his counter and double checking that the door is closed behind Kraglin. “What am I magic-ing this band up for?”

 

“Told you.” Kraglin says, turning one of the Cute Little BuggersTM over and over in his hands. “Private mission. Simple hack and database alter. Nothing I haven’t done before. But my old arm band got lost in a brawl on Knowhere.” He smiles. “I’ll pay you handsomely of course.”

 

“And how much is your client paying YOU?”

 

“Actually, he ain’t paying a unit. I owe the guy a favour. On account of he died to save a good friend of mine and my homeworld.”

 

“If he is dead, how can he be a client?”

 

“It’s complicated.” Kraglin says, putting the Cute Little BuggersTM back on the shelf. “So, arm band.”

 

* * *

 

Rocket is currently sat in a box full of spare parts and trinkets that Peter picked up during a fuel run as an “early christmas” present. The racoon didn’t know what christmas was, but he deduced that it had something to do with Peter desperately wanting Rocket to stop taking the ship apart when his brain switched to one of its mania modes.

 

Right now, Rocket is in mania mode number two. Which is ‘I’m so exhausted that I am seeing double, but my brain won’t switch off so I’m just going to fiddle, tweak and build until I pass out or die’. For the people that he calls his friends, this is preferable to mania mode number one which is ‘REBUILD THE WORLD!’ and normally involves the crew members finding various belongings having been lovingly ‘improved’ by a well meaning procyon iotor. While Peter had to admit that Rocket’s modifications HAD improved the sound quality in his headset, Gamora wasn’t as keen on the alterations made to the showering unit. Mainly because the raccoon had started working while she was in the shower.

 

He sighs in frustration, and throws the tool at the edge of the box.

 

Knock Knock Knock.

 

Rocket looks up to see Groot looking back down. “What do you want?”

 

“I am Groot.” Groot says, holding up a datapad.

 

“It ain’t my birthday?”

 

The Flora Colossus shrugs. “I am Groot.”

 

Groaning, Rocket pulls himself out of the box and follows Groot to the bench in the corner of the room, where the Flora Colossus sits down. A beat, and Rocket is sat in his lap, looking at the datapad, currently connected to a read only feed of the Xandarian Personal Records Database, using the bounty hunter passwords.

 

“I am Groot.”

 

“Why would I want to look myself up.” Rocket mutters through his teeth. “I know me already. Ain’t no need for me to…”

 

“I am Groot.”

 

Rocket shakes his head. “You KNOW why I don’t want to.” He can already picture the record in his mind. He’s been arrested enough times to have the layout memorised.

 

Subject: 89P13

Origin: Halfworld

 

Everytime Rocket sees it, the anger is enough to make him spit.

 

Groot had existed before the lab. Groot had a name. An identity. But everything that Rocket was had been born in the nightmare of Halfworld.

 

However much he kidded himself, he would always be Subject: 89P13. He would always be a thing.

 

Crying out, he throws the datapad to the floor and slides off of Groot’s lap. “I got work to do.”

 

Groot shakes his head, and picks Rocket up, putting him back in his lap before reaching down and picking up the datapad again. “I am Groot.”

 

Rocket looks into his friend’s eyes, and sighs. “Fine.” With a shaking paw he types into the system.

 

8 9 P 1 3.

 

It takes a few seconds for the database to return. NO RECORD FOUND.

 

“What?”

 

He types it again. 8 9 P 1 3.

 

NO RECORD FOUND.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

Groot shakes his head and reaches round the raccoon to type R O C K E T.

 

And there it is.

 

Rocket Raccoon

Origin: Terra

 

“You…” Rocket can barely talk around the lump in his throat. “How?”

 

Groot smiles, pulling the raccoon into his chest and holding him there as the first tears trickle out of eyes fixed on the screen in front of him, going over and over the words.

 

“We are Groot.”

 

Later, Rocket lays in his bunk with the screen propped up on the wall beside him. He reads the record over and over again, a silent mantra that finally relaxes his mind enough to let him sleep.


	4. Missed you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re awake.” He says. “Missed you, Pal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter came to me this morning while reading Divisionten’s “Nesting”, and has been writing itself in the back of my mind all day, and refused to let me do ANYTHING else until it was written.
> 
> My brain hurts now.

When Groot first mentions it, Rocket is only half listening. The knowledge that Halfworld downloaded into his brain fills in the rest of the information. Winters on Planet X, and the great sleep that all Flora Colossus enter at this time.

 

Temperature is a constant in space, but time continues, and two months after their escape from Halfworld, Groot can feel his body exhausting. His mind slows, his limbs become heavy, and with Rocket’s help he settles himself into a box of soil in the back of their stolen ship, and the world fades to the time of spring.

 

Groot awakens to find a nest of bedding and discarded food containers beside his box. He seems to be alone on the ship, until he finds Rocket sat under the chair in the cockpit, curled into a ball with his eyes fixed on the wall. He trembles, and makes a quiet squeaking sound that Groot hopes to never hear from him again. The raccoon animates as soon as Groot’s shadow passes over him, climbing up the Flora Colossus’s leg, torso, arm, and clinging to the rough bark of his shoulder.

 

“You’re awake.” He says. “Missed you, Pal.”

 

And as Groot reaches up to pat the back of his friend’s head, he thinks that they might be the first words that Rocket has said in three months.

 

-

 

When Groot sleeps his brain shuts down everything that isn’t needed to keep his body functioning, and all else becomes dormant. He does not dream or think in his sleep. And sometimes, when Rocket tells him about his dreams of the field where he was born, or of the incredible adventure that his subconscious sent him on while he slept, then Groot envies him.

 

But these times are treats. They are rare.

 

Most nights Rocket wakes screaming, clawing at his own fur to rip away imaginary wires and sensors and scalpels. He scratches at Groot’s bark until his strength fails. Then he either surrenders, or he recognises his friend and reaches out to him. Either way he collapses into Groot’s gentle hold, letting the Flora Colossus sooth and comfort him the way he might a frightened child.

 

Groot does not envy him this. And a part of him feels guilty that he does not suffer from such nightmares. That his thoughts and memories are limited to the waking world, where he can hide them behind flowers and distractions. Planning their next job. Researching their next bounty.

 

Groot had hopes that Rocket’s nightmares would lessen as time went on, but if anything their distance from the horrors of Halfworld seem to increase the frequency until one week Rocket barely sleeps for screaming, and he sits up feeling each of Groot’s limbs, checking that they are still attached.

 

“I couldn’t stop them. They...you screamed.”

 

Groot can feel his mind fog. He stumbles when he walks. His limbs hurt to move, proper jolting pain that brings sap to his eye that he tries his best to hide from the Raccoon. But Rocket sees. And Groot should have started the deep sleep a month ago.

 

Finally the Flora Colossus can take no more. His bark is peeling away, he is literally disintegrating in the ship, and Rocket forces him (and it is testament to how weak Groot’s condition has made him that the tiny raccoon can force the giant tree to do anything) into the soil box. Groot falls asleep to a lullaby of reassurances. “I’ll be fine.” “Rest.” “Get better.”

 

Groot wakes up two and a half months later to find Rocket curled up asleep in the soil box beside him. When the raccoon wakens, he grabs Groot and refuses to let go. He is mute for two days.

 

-

 

People often forget that Rhomann Dey is a botanist when he isn’t an overly pedantic Nova Corps officer.

 

“So, you all set for next week? Need anything?” He asks Groot as they make their way back to the Milano.

 

“All set for what?” Peter asks.

 

Rhomann seems surprised by the question. “Well...it’s the start of winter on Planet X. When the Flora Colossus enter their winter sleep.”

 

“Dude! You hibernate.” Peter says, turning to face Groot. “What, like a bear?”

 

“It’s actually better described as a state of dormancy.” Rhomann says. “All bodily functions shut down barring those absolutely necessary for the continuation of life, and the body’s energy consumption is reduced to barely 0.1% of the usual. He’ll need special soil. I actually have some in storage. Let me know how much you’ll need. A good square meter at least I should think.”

 

Groot nods, and turns to look at Rocket.

 

Rhomann’s let the cat out of the bag, and a box of his soil onto the cargo bay of the Milano. Between Peter and Drax, Groot has no choice but to climb in and settle down at the required time. His instincts do the rest, and he can’t fight the pull of sleep.

 

“Sweet dreams, buddy.” Peter says, smiling.

 

And the last thing Groot sees is Rocket standing in the doorway, his expression blank.

 

-

 

When Groot awakens, he yawns, and stretches his arms. The room is empty, and he climbs out of the box and steps into the Milano’s galley. His fellow Guardians are sat around the table, with the exception of Rocket who is sat ON the table, typing into a datapad.

 

It is Drax who sees him first. “You have awakened, my friend.”

 

The three other Guardians all turn and greet him in turn. A pat on the arm, an invitation to sit down. An offer of food. “Gotta be hungry. You just slept for, like, three months.”

 

Groot looks at Rocket. Smiling, bright eyed, happy Rocket stood in front of him on the table. “Missed you, Pal.”

 

And Groot is restless after his long sleep, so that night he sits in Milano’s cockpit and watches the stars. Then he sneaks down to check on Rocket, only to find the bunk area empty. Groot looks under and over it. He checks the box that Rocket has declared as his workspace, and he checks the box where he hibernated.

 

Finally, he starts to check the other bunks, and within Peter’s he finds both the Terran and Gamora curled in a foetal position, facing each other. Between them, with one arm from each draped around him, is a similarly curled raccoon.

 

Another night, Groot awakens to find Drax asleep sitting up in a chair in the galley, one hand now lax from where earlier it had been scritching the fur on Rocket’s head, as the raccoon slept in his lap, where he still slept now.

 

Maybe Groot should feel hurt, or feel unneeded. But he does not feel this. It does not even occur to him that he should. Instead, he welcomes this. He welcomes Rocket trusting others, and also wonders if Peter, Gamora and Drax realise how important and precious this is.

 

Nine months later, another winter draws in by Planet X reckoning, and Groot climbs into the fresh box that Rhomann gives him without a second thought.

 

 


	5. Parenting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How’d this happen?” Yondu says, turning back to his first mate. “That dumb tree pregnant or something?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because there was bound to be a Yondu and Kraglin centric chapter eventually! Please indulge me, I've had a long day :-)

It was an open secret among the Eclector that Kraglin was a right soppy bastard when he wanted to be. So learning that he had built a shrine to those who had died defending the Xandarian Homeworld (Kraglin’s homeworld) from the Dark Aster came as no surprise to anyone, least of all Yondu.

 

One of Horus’s books. The holy relic that Janis had kept in his bunk. Dorian’s favourite knife. Some pictures of the crew. A flag bearing the emblem of the Nova Corps, with one star for each Star Blaster pilot that had been killed when Ronan used the infinity stone against them.

 

And in the centre of the shrine was a pot plant, with a twig.

 

It had been just the twig on its own until last week, when Kraglin had contacted Peter to warn him that Yondu had opened the orb, found the troll doll, and put a bounty out on the Terran.

 

Rocket had planted a piece of Groot, and watered it three times a day. Kraglin assumed that it was a burial right, he wasn’t all that up to speed on Groot’s species (He didn’t even know what they were called), and so he followed suit. Yondu was never going to win any father of the year awards, but when he raised Kraglin and Peter he had at least insisted on fostering open minded attitudes, and a respect for the beliefs and superstitions of others.

 

The Centaurian Captain found himself at a loss when Kraglin appeared on the bridge six days later and, without a word, grabbed Yondu by the arm and dragged him to the First Mate’s quarters.

 

“What the HELL is going on with y…” Yondu doesn’t get to finish the sentence as Kraglin turns sideways and points, making eye contact with neither the Captain or the...well...

 

A tiny little Flora Colossus waved back at Yondu. “M gr.”

 

“Well ain’t you a cute little critter.” Yondu says, stooping down to eye level with the creature.

 

The tiny creature yawns, and stretches his arms.

 

“How’d this happen?” Yondu says, turning back to his first mate. “That dumb tree pregnant or something?”

 

Kraglin throws his hands in the air, his expression saying ‘HOW THE FUCK SHOULD I KNOW?’ for him. “He was just there when I woke up. Waving at me.”

 

“He was saying hello.” Yondu stoops back down. “You saying hello, little Critter?”

 

The creature makes a small giggling noise, and reached out to tap Yondu on the nose.

 

“Well.” Yondu says, smiling as he stands to his full height. “What you going to do with him?”

 

“Do?”

 

“You brought him into the world, Krags. That makes him yours.”

 

Kraglin’s mouth opened and closed several times as he looked from Yondu to the...was it DANCING?

 

Yondu’s face fell when Kraglin shook his head.

 

“Don’t get too attached, Boss.”

 

* * *

 

It’s all arranged within six hours.

 

The remote Krylorian colony consisted of a large biome, creating a pocket of lush green atmosphere on the otherwise desolate moon. A place where plant growth could be observed and studied in a controlled environment. It had taken no time at all to convince the scientists to let the kid stay with them, and Kraglin rested the pot in the lonely little shelf in their lab.

 

“I ain’t father material, kid. These guys’ll take care of yah, okay.” He kneels down to eye level with Critter. No! Don’t name him.

 

“Better life here than I can give you.”

 

Critter looks from side to side, then back at the Xandarian. “M Gt.”

 

“Such a brilliant sample.” The scientist is saying. “I have never had the chance to study one from so young. This will be a valuable benefit to my research.”

 

Critter reaches up to Kraglin, eyes wide. “M Gt.” They flicker to the scientist in fear, and then back at the Xandarian, arms flailing slightly in what seems to be a panic. “M Gt.”

 

Kraglin has to close his eyes and look away, turning to the door and walking out.

 

“M Gt.” The creature call is cut off by the door of the laboratory closing.

 

He stops in the corridor, memories flashing through his mind. Shivering in cold rain. Watching his father accept the units from Yondu’s hand. Watching his parents as they walk away, before a heavy hand comes to rest on his shoulder. “Come on, boy.”

 

“Deep breath.” He whispers. “You’re a Ravager, and this is a business deal. It’s done. Walk away.”

 

He takes another step.

 

* * *

 

Yondu sits on the bridge, studying readouts, when Kraglin returns.

 

“It done?” He says, not bothering to hide the disappointment from his voice as he switches the screen off in front of him.

 

“M Gt.”

 

Yondu smiles, and turns the chair round to face his First Mate, who is stood before him with a pot in his hands.

 

“Been thinking.” Kraglin says after a moment. “If Critter here get’s as big as his Daddy, then it’ll be useful to have that sort of muscle on the crew.”

 

“That it would.”

 

“So...maybe I SHOULD keep him around. I mean, how hard could parenting be? You raised us without a hitch, and you’re an idiot.” Kraglin instinctively steps to the side as he hears another member of the crew step onto the bridge.

 

“All here, Captain.” She says as she looks into the box she is carrying. “Plant food, pure water, a sun lamp, and another pot for when he gets bigger. And I found a teddy bear in storage that I think used to be Quill’s.” She turns to look at Critter, who is currently straining to look over the edge of the box next to him. He smiles at what he sees, and dances in his pot.

 

Kraglin turns from the crewmember to Yondu, an eyebrow raised.

  
“I might be an idiot, Kraglin.” Yondu says, leaning back in his chair. “But I still know you better than you know yourself.”


	6. Call Me Ishmael

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rocket sighs, a sigh that Groot has come to identify as his ‘what the hell am I thinking’ sigh, and climbs onto Groot’s knee.

Groot aged fast, certainly beyond the specifics laid down by any other sentient species in the known galaxy, so by the time he was two months old, Groot was the equivalent of a toddler and had the needs to match.

 

And Drax used to be a father.

 

So it had been Drax, by Rocket’s “tell the crew about this and I will end you” admittance, who had been appointed Groot’s caretaker through his toddler years. And of all that that entailed, Drax had come to welcome those hours each evening when toddler Groot would climb onto his lap so that Drax could tell him a bedtime story.

 

“Have I ever told you of the warrior princess Kamaria? She is who I named my daughter after. Her story is quite remarkable…”

 

Of course it was no time at all before Groot was too big to sit on Drax’s knee, but that didn’t stop him from sitting cross legged in front of the assassin, often with Rocket draped over his shoulder, to learn of how Kamaria had defeated the evil space dragon.

 

The Kree weapon had left Drax in a coma. Both Groot and Rocket had been assured, by first Gamora and then the Nova Corps medics, that the coma was not permanent. Just Drax’s body’s way of healing. All he needed was time.

 

And Groot sits beside his bedside, a book in his hand, and a look of pain on his face.

 

“I am Groot.”

 

“Figured I’d find you here.” Rocket says as he steps into the medical wing. “You okay?”

 

Groot holds up the book. “I am Groot.”

 

“Might help I suppose. They say people in comas can hear.” Rocket shakes his head. “But you ain’t exactly the poster child for dictation.”

 

“I..am Groot.”

 

Rocket sighs, a sigh that Groot has come to identify as his ‘what the hell am I thinking’ sigh, and climbs onto Groot’s knee.

 

“Give me the book.” Rocket grabs the tome before Groot has a chance to respond, and scoffs. “Does Quill know you have this?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, simply sits cross legged on Groot’s lap, with the book open in front of him.

 

“Call me Ishmael. Some years ago, never mind how long precisely, having little or no money in my purse....” Rocket continues reading the book. Some hours later, as the raccoon sleeps in Groot’s lap, the warrior brute wakes. Groot smiles, and gently shakes Rocket awake.

 

“Tell me, my friend.” Drax says, looking from Rocket to Groot and back again. “Tell me more of the friend that Ishmael made in the Spouter Inn.”

 

“Sure.” Rocket says, opening the book. “Upon waking next morning about daylight I found Queequeg’s arm thrown over me…”

 

The raccoon halts as Groot’s arm comes to rest around his shoulders, but then smiles, and continues. “The counterpane was of patchwork….”

 

Drax closes his eyes, smiling and listening to the story told by his friends.

  
  



	7. Actually the cold DOES bother me quite a bit anyway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rocket is smart enough to make the logical deduction that if a sheet of ice is strong enough to withstand the weight of one Drax the Destroyer then it should also be strong enough to withstand the weight of a tiny little rodent man. He is also smart enough to be surprised when, suddenly, this proves not to be the case.

Rocket is a genius. This is true. It is not being arrogant. If Rocket was being arrogant then he would say that he the smartest fricking life form in the known universe. But he suspects that this is also true.

 

The point is that Rocket is smart. Smart enough to make the logical deduction that if a sheet of ice is strong enough to withstand the weight of one Drax the Destroyer then it should also be strong enough to withstand the weight of a tiny little rodent man. He is also smart enough to be surprised when, suddenly, this proves not to be the case.

 

Okay, Rocket was a well fed raccoon. The discovery that 1) Gamora liked cooking, and 2) Rocket liked eating Gamora’s cooking, had lead to his needing to make one or two modifications to his wardrobe recently. But still!

 

Drax had just walked across it!!! And not just Drax. The fucking vindictive square foot had additionally taken a Centaurian, a Xandarian, a Zen Whoberi with a cooking hobby, and a Terran in a leather jacket. And now came Rocket Raccoon of Terra, and crack. Cold water. Very cold water.

 

The few brain cells left that are capable of logical thought immediately think up an experiment to test which is colder, the vacuum of space, or a frozen lake on the northern hemisphere of Hadron 7. Rocket's hypothesis leans towards the latter.

 

The crack, meanwhile, scatters across the ice at speed, and suddenly it isn’t willing to take Peter’s weight anymore either. The man falls in his bid to escape the plunge, and quickly tries to stop his descent by grabbing the nearest thing available. Kraglin would have congratulated him on quick reflexes, if that nearest thing had not been the Xandarian.

 

As Peter was both taller and bulkier, this proved to not be a successful venture, and down they went. The ice decided that it was quite offended by having two Ravagers trip and hit it in quick succession, and so retaliated by breaking beneath them.

 

Groot had never moved so fast. His arms flew into the cold water, retracting a moment later with a bedraggled ball of leather and fur that he quickly deposited in Drax’s waiting arms before sending the arm, and its partner, back into the water. Both arms retracted quickly, dragging with them two men who looked both very cold and very sorry for themselves.

 

“Gamora.” Drax calls. “Our friends will need fire.”

 

“Way ahead of you, Brute.” Yondu shouts from the edge of the lake, where he and Gamora have indeed taken some of the cooking blocks from their supplies and soon have a very respectable fire going beside the protective lee of a rock. “Get those boys over here.”

 

The next few hours prove to be tricky. Rocket is borderline hypothermic, which makes him irritable and difficult to be around. Peter and Kraglin actually are hypothermic, which makes Yondu irritable and difficult to be around.

 

Gamora and Drax lay the men on a blanket and covered them with their additional bedding, topped off with Yondu’s coat over Peter and his own bedding over Kraglin.

 

“Won’t you get cold?”

 

“I don’t feel the cold.” Yondu says, and if the slight shiver that he gives proves him a liar, then Gamora doesn't mention it.

 

Groot sits with Rocket on the other side of the fire. The raccoon is wrapped like a swaddled baby in a blanket, something which does his irritability no favours what so bloody ever, but Groot is a) bigger, b) stronger and c) holding Rocket’s pistol hostage.

 

Rocket crosses his arms beneath the swaddle, and leans against Groot’s chest. “Guess we’re going to miss the rendezvous.”

 

“I am Groot.”

 

“Yeah, might not be important for us, but I’m betting Captain Ravager over there is going to be pissed off.”

 

Groot shakes his head. “I am Groot.”

 

“Yeah. Guess his thoughts are elsewhere right now.” Rocket pauses to sneeze, which proves to be somewhat disgusting as his arms aren’t free. Groot grimaces, brushes the area of snow over with his hand, and then turns back to the raccoon.

 

“Sorry.” Rocket sniffs.

 

“I am Groot.”

 

“I meant for earlier. You ever going to get tired of having to save my ass all the time?”

 

“I am Groot.”

 

“Course I’d do the same for you, but I don’t do I? Can’t think of a single time I’ve saved your life. Always you rescuing me.” Rocket pauses, and then turns to look at Groot’s arm, the same arm that...only a few months ago...he had cut away to free Peter.

 

Groot reaches out with his foot, loops it around the strap of their supply bag, and pulls it closer. It takes several minutes of rummaging, but he finally finds what he is looking for.

 

In the meantime, Rocket has used Groot’s distraction as an opportunity to escape his blanket prison, which means that he is able to reach out and take the tiny pot from Groot.

 

“I can’t believe you kept this thing.”

 

“I am Groot.” Groot says, pointing at the pot. “I am Groot.”

 

“Hey.” Rocket looks up at him. “You’d have done the same for me.”

 

A few seconds pass, and Rocket worries that things are starting to get a bit too soppy for his tough raccoon image in front of the crew and their guest members. Luckily, they are distracted by the shouting match that has begun on the other side of the fire.

 

“We have to share body heat.” Peter says. “It helps.”

 

“What body heat? We’re both frozen.”

 

“What’s with the shyness? We used to hug all the time when we were kids.”

 

“Key phrase, Peter. ‘WE WERE KIDS’. Keep your fucking hands to yourself.”

 

“Do I need to bang both your heads together?” Yondu says loudly, before kicking the bottom of the bedroll. “You want to make little Critter an orphan before he’s a year old?”

 

“I hate you both.” The Xandarian mutters.

 

Groot chuckles, and puts the pot back in the bag.

 

“Thanks for saving me back there.”

 

He smiles. “We are Groot.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has any prompts for future chapters, let me know :-)


	8. Crayon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kraglin points at the parchments. “Enjoy them.”

Drax sees a brute. Muscles, scars, tribal tattoos burned into the flesh with red, and a rage behind the eyes that no amount of meditation, companionship, or rest can seem to remove.

 

Because Ronan was just a puppet, and it is really Thanos that he needs to kill.

 

Rage. Anger. The burning need to destroy. Drax’s temper has got him into more scrapes than it has gotten him out of. He nearly killed his friends. He nearly killed the galaxy.

 

His stupidity gave Ronan the stone.

 

“Don’t know that for sure.” Peter had said. “Yondu found us on Knowhere by himself, nothing to say that Ronan wouldn’t have done the same. What happened happened, and hey, we all survived.”

 

Except they didn’t. Did they.

 

How many had died because of Drax’s foolishness. He had seen the shrine on Xandar. The shrine on Eclector. The haunted look in Groot’s gaze whenever death came up as a subject. Or fire. Or crashing.

 

Drax gives apologies to Peter, and offers to replace the mirror when they next stop off at a commerce station.

 

* * *

 

Gamora is an assassin.

 

She knows over 100 different ways to kill over 100 different species, and has personally tested 98 of them on 50. She is more weapon than person, born (no, not born. Reborn. Tortured and maimed and reshaped into the thing she is now, which is barely a person) into a life where even moments of rest are about preparing for the next mission. Restoring energy to train. Eating food to strengthen. Study. Practice. Sharpen. Exercise.

 

Ronan once claimed that he had long ago stopped recalling the faces of all that he killed, but Gamora had yet to reach such contentment. She had envied Ronan that ability. That ability to close one's eyes and not see Xandarians on their knees, begging for life (and afterwards, perhaps, begging for death). Rainer in cages, they turn light grey when dehydrated and starved. Krylorian, with bruises on pink, the woman kept for their beauty, the men murdered in their dozens.

 

Gamora and Nebula and Korath were the children of Thanos, feared throughout the galaxy. A family that was a family of blood, although they were each a different species. The blood of their victims. The blood of every man, woman and child that Gamora had killed with her own hands, or handed to Nebula and Korath for their own pleasure in killing. Because that was the only way that Gamora could survive, to pay for her life with the soul of another.

 

It was only after she looked down and saw the blood that she felt the pain, and noticed how her grip had shattered the edge of the mirror. She apologised to Peter, and offered to replace the mirror when they next stopped off on a commerce station.

 

* * *

 

Rocket spat and then wiped the fluid away with his fist, glaring at the cleaned up reflection. Only it wasn’t clean. It was still marred with metal on fur, with scars and burns and wiring and augmentations. He knew where every single one was, and even the ones hidden by his flesh and fur were visible to him.

 

He scratched at his back, his side, his limbs. He scratched until the skin burned, and Groot had to pick him up and hold him still, one hand on each arm, legs kicking in the air. Rocket spits and swears and kicks with his legs. He threatens to tear Groot apart. Milano apart. The galaxy apart. He will keep going until there is nothing left.

 

Groot holds him close and he settles, exhausted, worn down by the weight of the world and augmentations and intelligence that he never asked for and never wanted. And people thinks he is arrogant and people think that he is proud. Unique. Special. But Rocket would do anything to go home and unknow all that he knows.

 

Unbecome all that he has become.

 

He doesn’t offer to replace the mirror. Groot does it for him.

 

* * *

 

“I bring gifts from the pot plant.” Kraglin proudly drops a rather heavy bundle of parchments, held together with string. “Critter said he wanted you to have them. At least I think that’s what he said. Kinda came out as ‘I am Groot’ same as everything else.”

 

Groot carefully lifts one of the parchments, unrolling it on the table in front of him. He rests both hands on either side of the unfurled drawings, a beautiful crayon drawn depiction of a tree filled orchard, the sun setting in the background.

 

“I am Groot.”

 

“Yeah.” Kraglin shrugs, and takes a seat on the other side of the table. “Yondu’s idea. Critter had a lot of stuff going on in his head, what with dying, coming back, and being in a weird environment. On top of everything you were dealing with before that. Halfworld and shit.”

 

Groot looks up at the Xandarian.

 

“Maybe you should try it. Art stuff. Seems silly. But drawing helped me and Peter when we were kids dealing with stuff. I mean, I know you’re not a kid, but...still might help. I’m guessing you’ve got most of the same stuff as Critter going on, you being the same... _person_...and all.”

 

Groot nodded, and gently re-rolled the parchment.

 

“Was Rocket being honest about you not wanting to see Critter before we leave?”

 

Groot nods. “I am Groot.”

 

“Makes sense.” Kraglin says, after a moment. “Let him become his own person with his own memories first. He see you right now, him still a kid, he’s just going to remember and want what you have, and he can’t have the cake you’re eating, to quote the terrans.” Kraglin nods in agreement. “Let him build his own life. Hopefully one he likes and don’t want to leave. Then he can re-meet the team, when there’s no risk of him seeing himself as ‘just a redundant copy’ anymore.”

 

Groot nods, and smiles. “I am Groot.”

 

“Shouldn’t be too long. He’s growing up fast.” Kraglin smiles, and stands up from the table. “Already giving half the Ravagers a run for their money in daily drills. Nipper’s sharp. He...well, _you_ I guess...learn fast. Still misses you guys though. Going to have to arrange that meeting soon, else he might be arranging it himself.” Kraglin points at the parchments. “Enjoy them.”

 

* * *

 

Drax remembers telling Groot about his life before Ronan. There was something about the giant tree man, in those quiet hours while they made their way to Knowhere to meet the Collector, that just made him easy to talk to. Groot was someone who genuinely listened to you, instead of just waiting for his turn to speak, and he listened without judgement or ridicule. Even when Drax, Drax the Destroyer feared on countless worlds who had killed dozens of Ronan’s minions, broke down in tears, all Groot did was rest a gentle hand on the back of the man who, at heart was gentle himself.

 

And that was the Drax in the drawings. A purple outline of a man toiling in a farmer’s field with a smile on his face. Another drawing had the same man, holding a smiling child in his arms, a woman stood beside them. Laughing. Enjoying their time together.

 

Not the destroyer. Not the warrior. Not the killer.

 

Drax the man who was a husband, and father, and farmer.

 

Drax folded the picture and placed it in his trouser pocket. He looked at himself in the mirror, and he smiled.

 

* * *

 

Gamora has only the one portrait. Her holding the orb, a speech bubble indicative of terran comic books (and therefore the items from Peter’s old reading material that Critter had been given by the ravagers) stating, in a written language called English (Which Peter had translated for her) “We must take the Orb to Nova Corps and save everyone.”

 

Gamora had helped save countless lives. She had even turned on her own family, on the woman that she had called Sister. She had fought Nebula, and watched her fall...perhaps to her death (Although Gamora knew Nebula better) and Korath had died as well, and yes she mourned her siblings, but she also recognised the greater good.

 

Gamora had saved Xandar.

 

Gamora had, perhaps, saved the galaxy.

 

Gamora pinned the drawing above her bunk, and looked at herself in the mirror with a smile.

 

* * *

 

Rocket has three drawings.

 

One is of him sleeping, dressed in trousers only, blanket kicked into a ball at his feet because of the heat of the world. Rocket remembers the planet. A bounty pulled them to a desert world that was only the second planet from its sun.

 

The Rocket in the drawing is well detailed, as much as a creature drawn by a child using crayon could be detailed. The shapes of white and black in the fur, the folds of clothing. His gun, of course, laid by his side. But no implants. No augmentations. The skin and fur were free of scars, metal and blemishes. This was a picture of Rocket, trousers allowing, as he had been born.

 

This was Critter drawing Rocket as Groot saw him.

 

A creature who was not made up of his augmentations, scars, or anything else that made him a freak in Rocket's mind.

 

Sleeping peacefully in the first picture. Building tech in the second picture. Piloting a ship in the third picture. All without implants or augments. Just the racoon beneath the implants. Just what Groot saw.

 

Just Rocket. Natural, nothing that makes him a freak Rocket.

 

Rocket doesn’t smile when he looks in the mirror that evening, but he doesn’t spit either. Which is progress.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading,
> 
> Going to be focusing on one shots for a while. If you have prompts, please let me know at http://anotherdonatello7.tumblr.com/
> 
> If you made a prompt on this (or another) fic that didn't follow through, please do not panic. It is in my notebook, and may appear later :-)


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